“That’s a polychaete, which is a
marine tube-building worm that helps stabilize tidal sediment.”
“And that’s a southern quahog (a
large clam). Over here are hatching baby crown conchs. Oh, and here’s a comb
jelly!”
A year ago, those words would have
never jumped out of my mouth, let alone, pop out with the joy of discovery on a
sandbar in the Indian River Lagoon. But here I stood, leader of a kayak eco-tour,
prodding the soil with tourists from Orlando who wanted to see more than Mickey
Mouse and the attractions of Central Florida.
As the saying goes, “It’s funny
where life takes you.” And indeed, it is.
A year ago, I was dutifully
documenting the birdies and bogeys of young women golf professionals from
around the world. I jumped into that segment of golf journalism full time 20
years ago and made myself a student of the game.
I covered golf tournaments and
learned everything I needed to know to write a record of those competitions on
deadline. I knew the players, from rookies to veterans, and took seriously the
responsibility of telling their stories right. I knew the history and the
context of today’s victories against the broader backdrop of yesterday’s
champions. I knew exactly what a Hall-of-Fame career looked like and what it
needed to be.
And, as an equipment writer, I
learned about the components of a golf club, visiting the factories and
learning about the epoxy and graphite of shafts, the rubbers and polymers of
grips, and even the metallurgy of clubheads. I visited golf equipment foundries
and watched them pour molten metal into molds to create clubheads for the
consumer market.
I also learned about agronomy and
why certain grasses will grow in certain places. I understood why greens roll
faster if mown in a certain way on a particular grass that has been fed a
prescribed amount of water. In recent years, I also made myself aware of how
course superintendents have found new ways to use less water, less herbicides
and pesticides, and to mow less often to make golf courses more friendly to
this fine old planet.
I thought I had done my homework. I wrote
for three national golf magazines, won a few national awards, met my deadlines,
maintained good contacts and sources, operated with a sense of fairness,
honesty and professionalism in my work, and recorded history, one day at a
time. I blogged, Facebooked, took photos and videos, and did the things that
modern communications require.
But I soon learned that regardless
of my competency, passion, interest and experience, the truth is, I didn’t have
control over my future when my objectives didn’t necessarily match those of new
leadership. Just like that, a new boss with new ideas and no great love of the
written word, waved his hand and I was gone.
It was a shock, to say the least,
and a decision that seemed shortsighted for an organization clamoring for
respectability within the industry. When I left, I counted the years of
experience among the staff of my former department and shook my head. Immodestly,
I had forgotten more than the collective bunch of them had ever known. Of
course, that wasn’t the point, and experience isn’t necessarily needed when the
treadmill of disseminated information is rote, superficial and sometimes, even
contrived.
Still, I wondered if some of the
remaining staff would have even recognized the faces or names of Hall of Famers
had they walked through the front door? And to be honest, I worried about that
for many months -- not because I fretted that those individuals would embarrass
themselves, but because I felt that those players who had earned their
accolades deserved to be treated better by the organization they helped
establish.
Time has passed. My mind is no
longer occupied with concerns about the recording of golf history or the
matters that once kept me awake at night. At some point, you simply must turn
your back and walk away. And in the same stride, you also must ask the universe
to provide guidance toward the next frontier.
I still love golf and its rich
history, and I still care about the players in the game and their pursuit of
records and milestones. But in so many ways, I can now find peace in a place
where the constancy of purpose has no relevance to the mercurial nature of man.
The tide comes and goes, whether we like it or not.
It’s scary to start over. Suddenly,
the competencies that once made me valid in the game have changed to foreign
terminologies, baffling biologies and ancient genealogies. Sometimes I am
wading in water that is up to my knees. Sometimes I am paddling like crazy in
waters that are over my head. And always,
always, always, Mother Nature dictates what will happen next -- and when.
Discovery in a new place is both
scary and tantalizing. It’s as challenging as leading others in small boats in
a torrential rain storm with hammering tides, insisting that what’s next is
worth seeing. It’s about believing in what’s out there. And it’s also sometimes
about convincing others that what’s out there is worth our interest and involvement
on a grander scale.
I guess I’ve started trading in
those birdies and bogeys for barnacles and bivalves. It’s a whole different
world, but I’m learning again. Truly, the joy of any competency is in the
pursuit of discovery and the willingness to wade into unknown waters, one toe
at a time.
- Lisa D. Mickey, July 12, 2012
